


Moonlight Mile

by MistressOfMalplaquet



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Serpent!Jughead, bughead - Freeform, mystery duo strikes again, reporter!Betty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-02-11 00:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12923499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressOfMalplaquet/pseuds/MistressOfMalplaquet
Summary: When Jughead returned to Riverdale High with a bad attitude and a leather jacket, he was swarmed by girls. If only there was someone he knew who could help him out of such a dreadful predicament...





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raptorlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/gifts).



Jughead returned to Riverdale High with a leather jacket and serpent tattoo. His Southside exile had lasted only a few months, but it seemed a lot had changed in his old school. There were new computers, a different music teacher, and the school newspaper had been resurrected.

The biggest difference was how girls treated him. Jughead first ran into the problem quite literally by shutting his locker and backing up into Ginger Lopez. She didn’t move out of his way, bringing her to nose level and uncomfortably close.

“Hey.” She twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “Want to hang out tonight?”

“What?” Jughead stifled the immediate answer, which was _Maybe when hell freezes over, defrosts, and gets put into a crockpot for hash._ “Can’t. Busy.” He added a few more excuses and walked off as though his Converse sneakers were on fire.

Just as he thought he was safe, Trula popped up in front of him. Jughead could have sworn on an entire shelf of bibles she appeared from nowhere, like a Whack-a-mole.

“You. Me.” She poked him with one fingernail filed into a crimson oval. “This weekend in my basement.”

He was beginning to feel like Daryl Dixon on the run from zombies, minus the cool crossbow. Mumbling an excuse, Jughead turned and loped the other way, pursued by Trula’s shouts: “You’re going to hook up with me whether you want to or not, Jones!”

His flight brought him to a quiet corridor he’d never been in before. Jughead cast a harried glance around the place and saw he was blessedly alone.

Just as he congratulated himself, a door slammed open. Melody emerged, flipped a drumstick in the air, and caught it neatly behind her back. “Hey, I was looking for you,” she purred. “Want free tickets to our concert this weekend?”

By this point, Jughead was seriously rattled. He blurted a few words that sounded like “Gurgle slap.” Feeling like a character in a ‘40’s British comedy, he felt the wall behind him, twisted the first doorknob his palm encountered, and fell inside. It could have been a dungeon complete with rack and iron maiden for all he cared.

The room was dim, lit only by desk lamp in the corner. Jughead slammed the door shut and leaned on it. “Hoooo boy, this day sucks,” he breathed.

“Problems?”

He shrieked and clutched the place where pearls would be if he wore them. “Who? What?”

A figure rose from behind the old-fashioned desk in the corner. “Relax, Jug. It’s just me.”

“Betty.” Relief poured over him like a cool shower during an August heatstroke. “Thank God.”

“What’s wrong?” She approached, amusement crinkling the corners of her eyes.

“Girls. Girls are what’s wrong. I met three of them already this morning, and they did not ignore me. No. They _talked_ to me. And _suggested_ stuff.”

Betty shook her head, squinting sideways at him. “Stuff?”

“Yeah. I don’t know, concerts and basements were among the proposals. There is no way I’m going to say Yes to anything a female suggests to me today.”

Betty sank back into her rolling chair and began to laugh. Jughead had never seen anyone give in so thoroughly to mirth. She clutched her belly, had a coughing fit, recovered only to add few unladylike snorts. “Oh my God,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I haven’t laughed like that in – well, since you left. Remember when we put purple dye packs in the football team’s showers?”

Jughead grinned, but his current troubles were too sobering. “I won’t survive a school year of this. It’s only November.”

“Oh.” Betty waved away his protest with one flippy hand. “We’ll think of something. But you do know why those girls are all over you, right? You’ve come back all dark and mysterious, and the leather doesn’t hurt.”

"What?" Tearing off the jacket as if it burned, Jughead tossed it to her. “You keep it. I just said Gurgle slap to one of the Pussycats for no apparent reason.” A thought struck him, and he eyed the office. “Say, what is this?”

“Oh!” Betty bounced up and flung out her arms at the office filled with worn-out furniture and discarded office supplies. “The Blue & Gold has been reborn.” Her voice dropped dramatically on the final word. “Like it?”

“I do.” Jughead tapped his chin, picked up a magnifying glass, and nodded with approval at the books on the shelves. “Let me guess, you singlehandedly restarted it? Dumb question, of course you did.”

"Juggie." Betty gasped and bounded forward to clutch his arm. “You know what? You could join me. I need another feature writer, and you’d be perfect.”

“I don’t have time.” Secretly, Jughead was pleased at the offer. “There still some junk going down between the Serpents and the Ghoulies – don’t look at me like that, Betts. I’m not writing about motorcycle gangs. It would mean my head on a platter.”

“Oh, okay.” Betty dragged him to the desk and lifted a file folder, bulging with notes written in her slanted script. “In that case, I have a ton of other fascinating projects that are in dire need of another reporter, since the Autumn Frolic is next week and I’m heading the committee. Look at this. Who left a treasure map in the library? What’s the secret of the old house in the woods? And why do animals avoid the woods around Greendale?”

“Hm.” Jughead raised an eyebrow. “I’d get complete journalistic freedom?”

“Yay!” Betty clasped both hands under her chin and beamed at him. “I’ll bring you donuts and coffee each morning.”

He raised one stern forefinger. “This doesn’t solve my problem, though.”

“Pish.” Betty sucked her teeth. “Together we can come up with a solution. Wait, how about if you bring a girl to the Frolic next week? Blam, problem solved. Bonus points if you two walk around holding hands.”

“Holding hands!” Jughead was appalled. “That’s what I’m trying to avoid.”

“Just ask a friend to do it.” Humming, Betty sat at her desk and began to scroll through her notes. “It won’t mean anything, and once the news gets around you’ll be able to return to your grumpy and hermit-like ways.”

“Yeah.” He felt a shaft of inspiration. “Yeah, you’re right! I could ask Toni to visit for a few days – oh, right. You don’t know her. She’s a friend I made at Southside.”

“Well, there you go,” she beamed.

“I’ll call her now.” Jughead fake-slugged Betty's shoulder and laughed when she pretended to fall off her chair under the force of his mighty fist. “Thanks, Betts.”

She put both feet on her desk, crossed them at the ankles, and folded her arms behind her head. For a moment she looked like a young Lauren Bacall about to give him a lesson in how to whistle, and Jughead realized something else had changed during his time at Southside.

Betty had become a real looker.

He forced his attention to his phone when Toni picked up. “Topaz,” Jughead grunted. “Help me out of a jam, wouldja? I need a date to a dance or some such shindig next Friday. Want to join me in a night of utter boredom and indifferent food?”

“That does sounds tempting,” Toni drawled. “Hate to say no, but I already have a date that night.”

“Well, break it. C’mon, Serpent code…”

“No way. I’ve been working on this one for a while. I’m getting lucky that night, don’t try and stop me.”

“Oh, good grief.” Jughead stabbed the screen, ending the call. He slumped into the straight chair by Betty’s desk, and it bleated in protest. “She can’t do it. Got a date already. Is everyone embroiled in ageless romance in this town?”

“You just said Toni lives in Southside, but I see your point.” Betty tapped a pencil eraser on the desk and frowned into the distance. “There has to be another person, someone you know well, a friend who’ll help you in your plight…”

Their eyes met. Jughead’s heart pounded against his ribs with a sudden, painful squeeze. “You don’t suppose,” he managed to get out.

“It seems so obvious now. I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before.” Betty pulled down her sweater so she looked as tidy as if she'd just stepped out of a tailor’s shop. “Ethel. I know where she is, too. Come on.”

#

They found Ethel in Flutesnoot’s classroom, head tilted as she considered a line of incomprehensible symbols on the board. Betty raised one finger to her lips as the girl erased a number and replaced it with a variable.

Jughead had been fond of Ethel since they were paired up for square-dancing class. He had hated do-si-doing and bowing to your corner, so Ethel had come up with a series of excuses to get them out of it. They spent the next few weeks in the corner of the gym in companionable silence, him with a notebook in his lap, her with a math text.

“Hello?” he said when the girl seemed to step back from her equation.

She whirled to face them. “Betty, Jughead, hi! Sorry, didn’t hear you.”

“Still squaring the circle?” Betty asked.

“Pretty bold, right?” Ethel’s face dimpled. “To think I could handle it after decades of mathematicians failed. Hey, are you looking for the professor? He left us in the lab.”

“Needed to get food,” a voice in the back of the room. Dilton Doiley sat in a seat, head bowed over his laptop. “Food!” he added with derision. “Ethel’s close to unlocking the mystery of the ages, and our teacher thinks about his digestive process.”

“Food _is_ very important,” Jughead began heatedly.

“Ethel,” Betty interrupted. “We wondered if you had a date to the Autumn Frolic. Are you going? Or are you busy that night?”

“She’s busy.” Dilton unfolded all five feet of his frame and strode forward to wrap an arm around Ethel’s waist. “And she’s going to the dance. With me.”

Jughead watched with horror as Ethel blushed, covered her face, and cried Diltie! in a falsetto voice. There, his theory had been proved right once again: romance made idiots of even the most intelligent people.

“Oh.” Betty deflated. “Okay.”

Dilton frowned. “Were _you_ going to invite her to the dance, Betty? I had no idea you had competing interests in Ethel, although of course I support LGBT rights. It’s only logical after all, why Darwin himself…”

“No, no.” Betty bit her lip. “No, I wasn’t… listen, you two have a blast! Maybe we can all hang out that night. I’m chairing the committee, so of course I’ll be there.”

“Of course,” Jughead murmured.

#

“I’m sorry that plan didn’t work out.” The evening air was chilly, and Betty had tied on a powder blue scarf over the Serpent leather jacket. “I’ll think of something, though, Juggie. Promise.”

“Maybe I’m being a bit dramatic,” Jughead conceded. “I can suck it up for a few weeks until the Riverdale student body finds their next shiny object.”

“It’s so nice to have you back.” Betty thrust her arm through his and leaned her head on his shoulder for a micro-second. “Arch and V are great, but I really missed you. And now we can we investigate after school and write for the paper. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

A nearby car gunned its engine and screeched in a wild peel-out. Overhead the hangnail moon hid behind shreds of sulky cloud. Its light silvered Betty’s scarf and hair, making her look like the forest sylph from a book he read when he was five.

“Yes,” Jughead said. “That does sound like fun.”

#

The Blue & Gold office was a morning refuge from all the prying eyes and poking fingers of Riverdale High's hallways. Jughead slumped in the old armchair beside Betty’s desk as she frowned over a page of copy. He typed a line, considered, and revised a few words, all to the scratchy background of her red pencil.

Jughead finished the conclusion of his article and started to reread it before a speed-edit session. He’d get rid of obvious spelling, punctuation, grammar errors, repetitions, and rewrite clumsy paragraphs before sending it to Betty.

“We’re ahead of schedule on the issue. Do you want to go and check out that abandoned house tonight?” she asked.

“It’s cold,” Jughead whined. He was about to add a few more complaints, when the door burst open.

Tina Patel twirled into the room and deposited herself on Jughead’s lap. “Hey, sex symbol,” she said before fastening her mouth to the side of his neck. “We are so hooking up tonight," she mumbled against his skin. "My parents are out of town? And I got a bottle of bubbly? And you can show me your gangster moves?” Jughead jumped out of the chair so quickly that Tina rolled off his thighs and bonked onto the floor. She scrambled to her feet, rubbed one butt cheek, and frowned. “Who the hell do you think you are? I don’t offer all this to just anyone, you know.”

He backed away from her until he was close to Betty on the safe side of the desk. “Sorry. Just remembered we have a – thing going on tonight.”

“Sure it’s not too cold?” Betty murmured under her breath.

Tina flicked her gaze between the two reporters. “Okay. I might act ditzy, but I do get it. Have fun, losers.” She walked out of the room, adding a loud Huh as the door closed.

Betty looked up at Jughead. “And that, dear Watson, is what we in the writing world would term a Flounce.”

“The flounciest flouncer to ever flounce.” Jughead collapsed in his seat and covered his eyes, but Betty leaned forward to tug his arm. “Hey, whassup with that? Leggo. I was just mauled, woman. Mauled, I tell you.”

“You just told Tina you and I had a thing tonight,” Betty declared in triumph, “which means we're going ghost-hunting.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead and Betty explore the mysterious old house.

Jughead rode to Betty’s house under a waxing moon. It pelted the streets with icy splendor, turning them into mysterious and secret vistas. When spring arrived, her neighborhood would become the familiar, tree-lined normality he had known from the outside edges for so long.

Betty stood in her driveway, leaning under the hood of her father’s old newspaper truck. She looked up as Jughead leaned his bike on its kickstand, swung a leg over the seat, and sauntered up to her. “Hello, you leather-clad Lothario,” she grinned.

“Hey there, Jumpstart Juliet.” He peered into the engine’s depths. “How’s this sparkplug junkie running?”

She shoved her crescent wrench into a side pocket of her jeans and wiped the battery with a rag. “Not too bad. I think we might just make it to the woods and back.”

“You think so, huh? What are we looking for there, anyway?”

Betty tapped her nose. “Rumors have been circulating about a mysterious inhabitant in that house I told you about. There have been lights in the windows, footprints when it snowed a few weeks back. It could just be a kid playing around, but I thought we’d take a look and see if there’s anything to write about.” She tipped back her head and gave him one of her Fahrenheit 451 smiles. “Want to drive?”

“Really? You want me to? Or is this just a ploy to make sure I don’t back out at the minute?”

“I want you to.” Betty folded down the prop, slammed the hood, and tossed him her keys. They dangled from a Swiss army knife complete with folding scissors and a miniature fretsaw, which Jughead caught in one fist. “I do have an ulterior motive, though.”

He swung into the driver’s seat and leaned one arm along the back. “And what would that be, Miss Cooper?”

“The mobs of girls you’re trying to avoid go nuts when you drive your motorcycle around town. I thought a few appearances in my middle-class truck might help, although it really should be a woody wagon or a minivan.”

Jughead stabbed the ignition with the key and throttled it into life. “We may just have to accept the undeniable fact of my animal magnetism. I’d look swell at the wheel of a woody wagon and you know it.”

“But would you look swell with this?”

He stole a look at her. She brandished a huge bottle green umbrella with a parrot handle at him, and Jughead groaned. “Not The Albatross. Behold outside: a complete lack of rain.”

“The Albatross is a multi-functional tool. She’s coming with us and that’s final.”

#

The abandoned house lay in an intestinal coil of Sweetwater, reached by a sanded road that didn’t exist on any map. Jughead shot past the entrance and had to double back. He and Betty were so deep in argument about who had saved whom in the trashcan fire incident of 7th grade neither of them noticed their turn.

At Betty’s direction, Jughead parked out of sight of the house and killed the engine before climbing out. He pocketed the keys and crept forward.

“Brrr,” he shivered.

“Sh. Come on.” She dragged him towards the house, feeling for a hairpin under her tight ponytail.

“Are you sure it’s safe? We’re not going to fall through the floor and die hideous deaths, are we?”

Under her clever fingers, the door clicked open. “Stop whining. Do you want to live forever?” Betty winked, replaced her hairpin, and produced a small but powerful flashlight from her pocket. “And yes, the floors are safe. I found the original blueprints during my research and checked them out. As long as villains didn’t sneak in and remove the support columns from the cellar, we’re good.”

Betty did indeed seem to be swarmed by villains at unexpected times, but Jughead bit back a riposte, brandished the Albatross in his left fist, and followed her inside. The blue beam from her torch revealed piles of old newspapers and books, some facedown on the floorboards. It looked like mice had lived in one large dictionary, although Jughead couldn’t hear the shaken-rice sound of rodents in the hall.

She tiptoed past an ancient parlor, filled with a few sticks of musty furniture, to the kitchen. There she paused and swept the blue slice of her sleuth’s light over a three-legged table, a rusty sink, old counters with red checked cotton hanging down.

She jerked her thumb at the stained material. “We should check it out. Maybe we’ll find clues to who’s living here.”

“Like a wild animal? I suppose you want me to go home with rabies as well as frostbite? You owe me several cheeseburgers with fries and a bottomless milkshake for this.” As he spoke, Jughead wedged himself between Betts and the makeshift cabinets. If a rabid skunk _was_ hiding there, it might as well fling itself at his face instead of hers.

He peered inside and saw broken plates, a gutted toaster, old jam jars. There was a furry lump in one far corner, causing Jughead a minor heart attack. When he poked it with Betty’s umbrella, however, it turned out to be nothing more than bread pelted with mold.

He stood up and shook himself in disgust. “Eww. Old food. No wonder it smells like hell on earth in here.”

Standing up, Betty flashed her light around the room one last time. She balanced her flashlight between shoulder and cheek, pulled a tiny notebook out of her jeans back pocket, and flipped through a few pages covered in her exquisite writing. “The reports I got state the lights they saw were all from this room, so we probably don’t need to check upstairs. Plus those steps might be dangerous.”

“Excellent reasons to head out of this slimepit.” Jughead pumped The Albatross in the air. “Now we can go to Pops and get those burgers you owe me…”

The air was split with a shriek from the upper story, sudden and brutal enough to freeze the blood in Jughead’s heart.

They waited, but the sound died away in ringing silence. “You okay?” Jughead murmured.

“Fine.”

“How nice for you. Meanwhile, I just had a massive heart-attack. The funeral's tomorrow in the back booth at Pops. Send food, no flowers, preferably pepperoni pizza.”

Betty bumped his hip with hers. “Shush. We have to go and check out the upstairs now.”

Jughead rolled his head back as far as it would go and emitted a long _Arghh_ but allowed himself to be towed to the hall staircase. There he wrestled Betty for the right to go first, insisting if the stairs fell in or if throngs of Freddie Krugers were on the second floor he had the better chance of survival. He ignored her repeated questions of why, he wasn’t wearing armor, and would that beanie protect him any more than her ponytail?

“I have The Albatross.” He waved it under her nose.

“We’re going together.”

The stairs creaked under their feet. Jughead held his breath but heard nothing else, no more screams or ghostly laughter or distorted voices telling them to Get Out. He was so intent on listening that his Converse caught the holes of a worn carpet on the landing, and he nearly fell on top of Betty in front of a closed door.

“Careful, Nureyev,” she whispered.

“Sorry, Fonteyn.”

Betty disentangled herself, and the door swung open with one push of her hand. The room inside was furnished, almost cozy. Jughead saw a tiny fridge, camp bed, and a few grocery bags of what looked like supplies. Probably he had left similar sad piles of refuse in some of the places where he’d camped.

The scant space was breathless, suspended in time. Around them the old house stayed as silent as a Capuchin crypt. Jughead was about to suggest they should leave when something in the corner moved.

Betty gasped. Her hand in his arm tightened. “Juggie,” she said. “Take a look.”

What had appeared to be a lump of ectoplasm was actually a gray mother cat with several kittens. As Betty approached, the female wailed again – the sound they had heard earlier in the kitchen.

“The poor thing’s hungry,” Jughead said. “Is there any food in that fridge?”

“Good call.” Betty swung open the door of the mini fridge. “No canned food, but here’s an unopened box of Friskies. Obviously someone’s living here, wonder if they need help? And homes for the kittens?”

“Whoever it is needs to add kitty litter to the grocery list.” Jughead sniffed. “This place is _ripe_.”

Betty poured out food and water into two old pie pans left beside the mother cat’s bed. Instantly it began to purr as it crunched the Friskies. One of the nursing kittens, dislodged by its mother’s defection, rolled and waved lazy paws in the air.

Entranced, Betty waved a finger over the animal and squealed when it batted her wrist. “It likes me! Doesn’t it look like a fur sausage? Mom wouldn’t be too happy if I brought home an entire cat family, though.”

“Nope,” Jughead agreed. “Can’t see Mama Coop being on board with that anytime soon. Now that The Mystery of the Old House is solved we’ll have to call the shelter.”

“You’re right.” Betty bent closer over the kitten and slid her thumb under its neck. It twisted and stretched with pleasure, its mouth opening in a silent mew. “Oh, you are just too cute.”

He watched her for a moment. Jughead felt something growing within him, an inescapable impulse. Cautiously he kneeled next to her. Moving slowly, Jughead put his lips next to Betty’s cheek. When she seemed intent on the cat, he whispered into her skin: “Boo.”

The effect was electric. She shuddered violently, nearly dropping her flashlight, and jumped a foot into the air.

Jughead scrambled away from her, his heart pounding. “Woah,” he said. “Just a joke, for crying out loud. Calm down.”

“You damned idiot!” Betty put down the box of Friskies and fisted her hips. “What are you, eleven years old? Ran out of inkwells for dunking my pigtails?”

She turned and marched down the stairs, ignoring his attempts to explain. “You can’t blame me!” he yelled when they were outside. “I was alone in a haunted house with a girl. I’d have to turn in my boy card if I _didn’t_ try to scare you.”

“Ha very ha.” Betty stuck her nose in the air. “Just drive me to the shelter. We can tell them about the kittens, and then you can take me home.”

“Yes, Queen Elizabeth.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“And after I do your bidding?” Jughead unlocked the truck, keeping out a wary. He knew from experience that Betty knew how to throw a punch. "You called me a damned idiot up there, by the way."

She ignored him. “You can beg for my forgiveness for the next few weeks until I decide you’ve groveled enough. Did I mention I made cookies today? Because I did. Now I’m giving them all to Archie.”

“Aw, gee, Betts.” He put the key into the ignition but didn’t turn on the car. “You wouldn’t do that to me, wouldja? When did you become such a prude, anyway?”

She twisted away from his touch. “When you did that I could have hurt the kitten, or – or – hurt the kitten. You suck, Jones.”

Why was she going medieval on his ass? Jughead slammed one palm on the steering wheel. “Oh, for crying out loud. I didn’t hit you or hit _on_ you, which Reggie totally would have done. I was helping you out. A little gratitude would be…”

“Gratitude?” Betty’s jaw dropped. “For what, for being a normal person and displaying the usual amount of humanity?”

“No one else would follow you into a deserted house for an on spec article  _and_ carry your stupid umbrella!”

“So I’m supposed to treat you as a hagiographical beacon because the Riverdale boys have lowered the bar so much?”

“For fuck’s sake.” He sucked in breath to tell her to suck it up before asking what hagiographical meant.

At that moment, a dark shape approached the frost-spangled passenger window. It raised one fist and knocked sharply on the glass.

Betty jumped, whirled as though she’d found a new object for her anger. “Who the hell is this now?”

“Wait.” Jughead craned his neck to peer at the dark blob. “We know him. That’s Mr. Svenson.”

She rolled down her window, and Svenson’s age-blurred face poked inside. “Sorry to disturb you and your boyfriend,” the man said, “but I was wondering if you found some cats upstairs in that house?”

#

“He made a mistake.” Jughead jerked the steering wheel to avoid a pothole on the way home from the Riverdale animal shelter. “I don’t know why he said that me being your boyfriend. I mean, the man’s pretty old, and I guess he thinks that house is a place where couples hang out.”

Betty turned away from him and knuckled the mist on the glass, writing a furtive S before quickly rubbing it out. “The Blue & Gold article’s toast. I thought we’d get some hard-hitting news tonight, but all we’ve got is a puff piece about cats.”

Fury prickled his nostrils. Jughead pulled onto the side of the road and braked so forcefully they were both propelled forward like astronauts on a faulty rocket. He killed the engine and blew out a frustrated breath. “Forget the damn paper and don’t avoid the real issue. You shuddered when I whispered in your ear back there. _Shuddered._ I’m disgusting now? Is that it? I disgust you?”

Betty squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “No. You don’t.”

“Then what?” Jughead turned to face her. “I could feel it run through your entire body. It was like I affected you on some deep level …”

She turned to him, unconsciously mirroring his posture on the old roll-and-tuck seat. “We’ve been a pair of dopes, if you think about it.”

He stared at her and felt his jaw drop. A rapid series of images ticked through his memory: Tina Patel saying she got it, Ethel squealing Dilton’s name, Betty with her feet up on the Blue & Gold desk. Moonlight painted her ponytail gold and white as she shook her head, Betty’s classic gesture of impatience. Her motion was as familiar to Jughead as his own body.

They’d known each other, after all, for most of their lives.

“Do you get it now?” Betty whispered. “Do you?”

Jughead felt the air leave his lungs. His heart suddenly began to pound as if it wanted to escape his ribcage, and he could feel his hands shake. _Oh God,_ he realized, _I’m about to…_

A hideous jangle shattered the moment. Jughead jumped and saw his phone on the dash light up. He snatched it, stabbed the screen, and snarled, “Who is it? What do you want?”

“It’s Trula.” The girl’s voice was measured, filled with confidence. “And as a matter of fact I want you. I’ve got tickets to the dance next week, and you’re taking me as your date.”


	3. Chapter 3

“A suit?” Jughead was appalled. “I’m not getting a suit.”

“I understand your reservations.” Trula stepped closer, brushed invisible lint off his collar, and nodded firmly. “You have a reputation of being a rebellious loner, correct?”

“I think the correct term is weirdo.” He was sidetracked from the dullest conversation ever by Betty Cooper when she passed them in the hall. She blushed slightly, arms filled with dance decorations and books.

They hadn’t spoken since the ridiculous fight after the Haunted House debacle. Jughead opened his mouth to shout Hey Coop at her, but Betty had already moved on and was swallowed in a crowd of linebackers in letterman jackets.

“Aha. By _not_ wearing a suit you’ll be doing exactly what everyone expects,” Trula concluded triumphantly. “If you want to be a real rebel, you’ll prove them all wrong and go to the dance in black tie.”

Conversations with Trula always went that way: slippery as sea jelly, impossible to nail down. Whenever Jughead thought he’d made his point, Trula would turn it against him so the conclusion was what she wanted all along. Worse, Jughead usually found he had forgotten what he wanted in the first place.

“You have cat hair on your sleeve.” Trula brushed his leather, somehow guiding him into the flow of students. She stuck one arm through his elbow and continued talking about the dance in a low, confiding murmur that made it difficult to think.

With an effort, Jughead roused himself from the stupor she always seemed to cause. “Trula,” he said, “I don’t want…”

“You don’t want girls flocking around you like crazy?” Her elegant ha-ha was completely different from Betty’s loud belly laugh. “Just look around, Forsythe. Do you see girls trying to get your number or waste your precious time? No one’s paying attention to you. Isn’t anonymity what you wanted? I'm the perfect camouflage. You should have listened when I suggested we get together and saved yourself a great deal of trouble.”

Far down the hall, Jughead caught one last glimpse of Betty’s flippy ponytail. “I didn’t mean I wanted …”

“You’re welcome.” Trula kissed him on the cheek. “Pick me up here after school.”

#

It was as if he had lost himself in a glass maze and couldn’t even see the walls to find a way out. Jughead blamed three people for his current predicament:

Trula, for being so devious. He could see what she was doing, and a sick part of him admired it.

Betty. He was uncharacteristically angry with her for being so _Betty._ Once Jughead had gabbled his way out of the Trula phone call in the truck, she had refused to talk to him any longer. That night they drove in stiff silence to the animal shelter, reported their findings to Sherriff Keller, and went home. It still made him itch to remember his horrifying attempts at apologies, which were all ignored.

Most importantly, he blamed himself. A stronger person would have told Trula to go to hell, picked up the phone, and asked Betty to meet him at Pops for a long conversation. But a stronger man would be certain of the result, and Jughead had no idea how Betty felt about him.

He doodled a cat face under his useless findings so forcefully that the pencil point pierced the paper. Jughead threw the thing inside his messenger bag. When the bell rang, he was the first one out the door.

He wandered to Trula's meeting spot. A river of escaping students flowed past him, all different - tall and short and bespectacled and and athletic and fashionistas.

And a blonde girl, intent on her phone.

“Hi,” Jughead said. He hated the eager tone of his voice.

Betty looked up, peered over her shoulder as if he might be talking to someone else, and frowned. “Hi.”

He took a deep breath. “Any chance we could sit down and talk? Please?”

Her nervous fingers pushed back a stray lock of hair. “I guess we do need to hash things out. I have a meeting about the dance that I just can’t bail on, though. Would you be able to meet me later at Pops?” Betty blinked and she added, “Besides, I still owe you a hamburger and bottomless milkshake.”

Jughead felt like he had swallowed the sky. “You know I can’t resist the delicate taste combo of ice cream and chopped meat. 7 sound good?”

She screwed up one eye in deep thought. “Make it 8, and I’m a player.”

If he said any more words would bubble up out of his throat with all kinds of declarations. Instead Jughead nodded. His reward was a Betty Cooper smile, the one that made her look like a noir mystery dame.

About to say So Long in his most devil-may-care manner, Jughead was interrupted by a pack of Bulldogs. Reggie headed a phalanx of football players that swarmed past Betty and Jughead.

Not all.

One guy paused, a kid with the kind of muscles Jughead would never have. He looked like an upside-down Dorito blessed with terra-cotta skin and a kind smile. “Betty?” Trev said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude on your conversation, but I just wanted to check in. We’re still on for tonight, right?”

“Oh.” She cast a worried look at Jughead. “I guess I got caught up in dance planning, and…”

Acidic anger ate through him. “She’s free,” Jughead declared flatly. “Nothing going on here. Have fun.”

He spun on one heel and strode out of the building, ignoring her shouts for him to wait, just wait.

Both Betty and Trula could suck it. Jughead had somewhere else to go.

#

“So let me get this straight.” Toni poured a beer, slid it down the bar to Tall Boy who was studying a map at his usual corner, and shook her head. “You’re going to this dance with a chick you don’t even like?”

“It’s complicated.” Jughead sank onto the uncomfortable bar stool. “Before I knew what had happened, we had a date that included suits and corsages and matching ties.”

“That sounds healthy.” Stretching over the bar, Toni gripped a fold of his leather in one raisin-sized fist. “ _Not._ Besides, I know you. Seems to me your interests lie elsewhere. Hm? Am I right or am I right?”

Jughead scrubbed his face with one palm. “Yeah, maybe. Okay, definitely. But I’m such a dumb-ass I didn’t realize what I wanted until Trula waltzed in with her plans and fast-talking ways.”

“That hussy,” Toni murmured.

He ignored her. “And then Betty has plans with some other dude tonight! When we were supposed to go for food at Pops! So, it’s hopeless.”

Pretending to suffer a coronary, Toni staggered against the bar. “Wait, you got jonesed of a cheeseburger and fries? Heh heh, jonesed.”

“Shut it, Topaz.”

She picked up a bottle of vodka, flipped it expertly, and began to mix a shot that looked like it should be called Porcelain Bus. “Tell me exactly what Betty said, and don’t skip the details. And begin at the beginning.”

Jughead heaved a long and put-upon sigh. “It all started when Betty and I went to the woods to investigate this haunted house for the newspaper. There were noises and cats and feelings. So then after the trip we went to her truck, and I thought I picked up on a vibe. Yadda yadda yadda, Trula high-jacked my life from that point, and then today…”

“Wait.” Tall Boy slapped the map onto the bar and pointed at Jughead. “You were here? In the hidden cabin?” He tapped the map the green strip running adjacent to Sweetwater River, indicating the thick woods.

When Jughead blurted he had been there on assignment, Tall Boy rose slowly from his seat, 6 feet 8 inches of bearded menace. “Serpents had plans for that place,” he continued. “If you and your little girlfriend drew attention to it, the set-up's hosed. And for what? A school newspaper?”

“Wait a minute,” Toni started at the same time Jughead asked Tall Boy what the hell he was talking about. “Let’s just settle down here.”

Her words were too late. Tall Boy aimed a vicious kick at Jughead's bar stool. “Your jacket,” he ordered. “Hand it over. As of right now, you’re no longer a Serpent.”

#

The morning after Jughead’s No-Good, Very Bad day started off late. Jughead stretched, cursed at the clock, and went to find coffee.

There were Cheerios in the cabinet and the milk was still good. Jughead decided to have breakfast, take a shower, and try and figure what he would do next.

The last thing he wanted to do was walk into the hell-hole known as Riverdale High and confront Trula. His phone held a series of unanswered texts from her, escalating from calm understanding to outright demands, all with her signature spin.  _She’s passive-aggressive,_ Jughead realized, and with that came another truth. He wouldn’t be able to spend an entire night with the girl or he’d end up losing his mind. It was either Trula’s feelings or his sanity, and he didn’t have much left of the latter. It also meant he’d have to confront her, break their date, and listen to a long Twyst examination of his psyche.

The choice was simple: suffer torture or ditch school. Jughead’s decision was instantantaneous.  _I’ll stay home. Spend the day writing_. _Maybe I’ll even finish a little something for the Blue & Gold, and I can deliver in person later, and Betty might be there._

These pleasant thoughts were interrupted by the front door nearly flying off its hinges. FP crashed into the trailer and saw Jughead with his feet up on the table. “Boy!” he thundered. “What are you doing here? School starts in ten minutes!”

“Not going.” Jughead calmly ate another bite of cereal.

“The hell you’re not.” FP marched in front of his son and poked him viciously. “You’re going to wash Cheerios off your face, put shoes on your feet, brush your teeth, and get your butt into school. _Now_.”

#

The usual knot of Bulldogs had gravitated to the door of Flutesnoot’s room. Jughead figured he was late anyway, so he might as well skip class to do homework for second period. One benefit of losing his Serpent jacket, Jughead discovered as he slunk through past the football players, was a cloak of invisibility. No one stopped him, nobody called out his name. Unnoticed in the mass of Riverdale students, Jughead rounded the corner - and stopped.

Betty was there, pinning up posters for the dance. Her brow wrinkled in concentration as she gave one sheet an infinitesimal nudge left before she stepped back and nodded, apparently satisfied with her adjustments.

_Maybe she won’t see me,_ Jughead thought, _now that I’m insignificant again._ He held his breath and tiptoed past her, reminding himself this was what he had wanted all along.

Silence.

He told himself he was fine. This was good. He’d stick to his plan, get some math done…

“Juggie!” Betty’s cry was followed by a series of running footsteps. A strong hand clutched his sleeve, and Jughead was ruthlessly spun around to face her. “Hey,” she said breathlessly. “Look. Can I talk to you for just a few minutes? I know you’re busy, but maybe we can. Can. Just.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the Blue and Gold office.

Muttering okay but he had homework to do, Jughead followed her into the office. Betty walked to her desk and started shuffling through a sheaf of papers. As he watched, the back of her neck began to turn red. “Please understand I’d never gossip about your girlfriend,” she said to the desk. “But I do have to tell you something.”

“Girlfriend!” Jughead was appalled. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Betty seemed to be enthralled by a circular advertisement for worm pills. “I mean Trula,” she confided to the bald doctor grinning on the cover.

“She’s not my girlfriend!” Jughead let his messenger bag fall to the floor with a thump. “Trula coerced me into this horrifying dance, although I still can’t figure out exactly how she did it.” As he spoke, he realized that wasn’t true. There had been a catalyst for the entire Trula affair, and it stood in the shape of a ponytailed blonde with curiosity like a scythe. “Why wouldn’t you talk to me in the truck that night?” he demanded, stepping right behind her. “Why?”

Her ponytail slapped the air as she whirled to face him. “You had just said okay to Trula when she called. Your phone was turned up, and I heard her. She told you what to wear to the dance, and you said Okay.”

Jughead gritted his teeth. “I said that to get her off the phone! You and I were just about to have a moment, and I wanted to get rid of her…”

“By saying yes to a date?”

It did seem silly when she put it that way. “Maybe I didn’t think it through,” Jughead admitted. He didn’t move, and neither did Betty. “But I’m going to be a douche canoe and tell her today that I can't go. Better face the music now than deal with her psychological torture for an entire night, before she ties my words into knots and I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“That’s the thing,” Betty said gently. “The gossip mill was buzzing about you two. Everyone thought she had ‘enslaved’ you – Kevin's word, not mine – and a lot of the guys were impressed. Trula told Reggie this morning that she'd break her date with you so he could take her to the dance instead. Apparently she likes his car.” She drew in a long breath and added in a rush, “Which is so stupid! It’s a souped-up Camaro with dicey brakes. My great-aunt has a better clutch.”

“Trula doesn’t want me to take her to the dance?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” Betty whispered.

Jughead pumped one fist in the air and whooped. “Off the hook like a slippery fish!” Sobering, he remembered something. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Yesterday I got kicked out of the Serpents, so there’s no more leather jacket. Coincidentally, I’m not getting mobbed by women anymore. In fact, the hallowed halls of Riverdale High might as well have been lined with Jughead wallpaper, since apparently I blended right in.”

Betty fanned herself with the worm pill pamphlet and pulled out her rolling chair so she could plop into its worn leather seat. “Oh! I guess – congratulations? So, no more subterfuge? Great. Great. We can concentrate on the newspaper then. In fact, I think Svensson knows more than he’s letting on. I bet something is going on in that haunted house, and I’m not talking about kittens.”

Jughead leaned forward, twitched the paper out of her grip, and braced his arms on both arms of the chair. When she looked away, he slid one finger under her chin to tilt it up. “Betts, I have unresolved anger issues and 18 bucks to my name. Want to go to this dance shindig with me?”

“I take Adderall and have psychotropic episodes,” Betty admitted. “And I’d – Juggie!”

The world tilted around them, and Jughead realized he had somehow slid onto the floor with a lapful of Betty.

Kissing a girl had never been on his bucket list, but – ohhhh. _So this is what all the fuss is about,_ he thought.

It was as satisfying as slotting in the final piece to a puzzle. Betty’s lips were warm, slightly chapped, and moved against him in a way that made lightning erupt in Jughead’s stomach.

“Gosh, this is great. Wow, this is nice.” Betty spoke against his lips, which made him feel he could swallow her words like champagne bubbles.

“Wanted to do this in the truck,” Jughead said. “Should have. Would have, but you shuddered when I got close and said Boo – ow, ow, ow.”

Betty grabbed his hair and glared at him. “That’s why you were hesitant? For heaven’s sake. Jug…” She leaned forward and blew softly into his ear.

_Holy pickled anchovies on a bison burger._ Jughead closed his eyes, cried out, and – yes. A shudder ran right through him. He slumped against the desk, panting. “Oh. That? It was that?”

With one of her belly laughs, Betty pulled him into another kiss. “Yes,” she murmured into his mouth. “That.”

#

She didn’t want to go to the dance. Instead, Betty suggested that they return to the house, check it out again, and find out what underhand dealings were going on there. “And then we can go and park by the river,” she said with a look at him through her lashes, “for quite some time.”

Jughead slouched to second period with his finished assignment in a back pocket. He sent a final text to Betty _(I’m going to investigate with you like you’ve never been investigated before)_ and prepped for class.

Archie arrived and gave him the finger, their usual salute as best friends. “I’m taking Ronnie to the dance tomorrow,” he boasted. “She finally said yes.”

“Cool,” Jughead replied. “Betty and I are skipping it.”

“Cool.” Archie turned around, completely clueless.

The big lug had no idea that Jughead had major plans. When Friday arrived, he’d drive with Betty to the old house. He’d bring whatever info he could scrounge from the Wyrm and FP. Together they’d scope things out, see what else they could dig up.

Under the light of a November moon, Jughead would drive with Betty to the banks of the old river. No longer a Serpent or a loner weirdo, there he might become something new.

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by [this prompt](https://bughead-fanfic-wishlist.tumblr.com/day/2017/12/03/) from the wonderful [bughead wishlist blog](https://bughead-fanfic-wishlist.tumblr.com/). Visiting that site is like going to a used bookstore because I just want everything. 
> 
> Thank you, anon, for the wonderful inspiration, and thanks to raptorlily for her help finding the original prompt.


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